Rarity
by Starherd
Summary: A private detective OC finds that the case she's on is also being worked by the Hellsing Organization. As she learns of the supernatural reality, she becomes the target of a killer... who has eluded Hellsing for hundreds of years.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I had a dream set in the Hellsing anime universe that came out as a rather coherent story, so I wrote it up. It is told from the point of view of an original character, and it is not a romance. I am such a rebel. ;-)

Also, I am not familiar with the manga, hence why this takes place in the anime universe, in some mid-series neverwhen.

Rarity: Part I

I was always under the impression that it only takes a couple of sentences to get to know me. I'm Ivy Crouse, and I'm a private investigator. I share a small house with two cats, a lot of books, a couple of gaming consoles, and an iMac, and I like it that way. The end. Pretty simple, huh?

Okay, so maybe it's not quite so simple, but that's usually enough to put off whomever I'm talking to. Provided I let them get that far to begin with. I'll talk endlessly with anyone who wants to talk, just not usually about myself.

I figure that I can exist this way – successfully keeping myself to myself – because I have plenty of time to think, so I don't just let whatever I'm thinking spill out of my mouth when I'm talking to someone. It takes practice, but the more I consider this sort of thing, the easier it is. And there are long stretches of time in which I have nothing to do but sit, stare, and think. Like right now.

This is the most exciting part of being a PI: I have a guy to follow, at his wife's request, and I'm sitting in my car across the street from the grubby little one-story house that he went in to six hours ago. Yay.

At least he had the courtesy to go into the house with some skinny little strumpet who is definitely _not_ his wife. And I got pictures. My client might not be happy about what he seems to be doing, but she'll be happy to know.

It's times like these that I wish I had a partner or something. Someone to go get me some coffee. And a donut. One of those chocolate ones with chocolate icing and sprinkles from the bakery that the little old Asian ladies run over in the Village…

It is in the midst of my donut reverie that the door of the house opens. I snap to attention, sinking down in my seat as though I'm just sleeping in my car, in case he should glance in this direction.

He doesn't glance in my direction, or in any direction. He heads purposefully out to his car, starts it up, and drives away. And he is alone.

It's six in the morning, dawn fast approaching. Okay, so his mistress is crashing for the day, or it's her place (though she didn't look the type to go for dirty grey aluminum siding). I'll see if I can't find out tomorrow. Today. Whatever. I hate pulling all-nighters like this, but I seem to end up doing it a lot…

I start up my car and follow him at a decent distance, but he just goes home. His wife told me that he'd always been very light-sensitive, and so had always worked the night shift… some night shift.

Finally, I go catch the morning ferry back to the Village, pick up that magical donut, drop the film off to be developed at the one-hour place, and go home to sleep.

When I meet with her for a late lunch in the City, I show my client the pictures, and she goes to pieces. She sobs about how she'd met him in a bar and how she'd trusted him for three years, and generally goes on blubbering their entire history until I put an arm around her and make comforting noises. It works, but then, she didn't strike me as too bright to begin with. Ah well. She tells me to find out the mistress' name, so that she can list her in the divorce paperwork.

A couple of hours in the appropriate offices yields that the dirty grey house is in the name of one Koit Finerson Flanders, which is a horrid anagram for Frank Ed Fioli-Sternson, the guy's full name. I guess you can't help a horrid anagram with a name like that, but still… How unimaginative. There's a saying about not trusting people with two last names, so a name composed of three last names is _definitely_ suspect, right?

And he's owned the house for, oh, three years. _That's_ going to make the soon-to-be-ex-wife feel good.

No luck finding the mistress' name there. However, some nosing about does turn up that Koit Finerson Flanders owns not just that house, but a rather nice car as well. I wonder where he's hiding it. Possibly in that little house's garage, though it would look a bit out of place in that neighborhood.

I decide to go hang about by the house again. Hopefully I'll see her again in the vicinity, and then I can follow her to her home, if she even has a separate place.

So in the late afternoon, I sit in my car across the street from the dirty grey house, and I wait. I brought some reading material this time. I'm going through Bram Stoker's Dracula for about the fourth time. Since I've read it before, I don't get so engrossed that I don't pay attention.

And it's just great stakeout material, particularly for this case. Every cheating guy thinks he's Dracula: he can have any woman he wants, and as many as he wants, and once he's done with them, he can just ignore 'em. At worst they'll just hang around being pretty scenery and hoping that he'll pay attention to them.

Dracula is such a dork.

Unfortunately, I only get to read for about an hour before it's too dark out for me to see. I'm just out of range of the street light, and it wouldn't do to draw attention to myself by turning on the car's interior light. So I soon just sit in the dark, staring at the house and thinking.

And I sit.

And sit.

One AM rolls around, and I'm still sitting, and the house is quiet. I think I've totally missed them. Curses, foiled again.

Not long after that, Fioli-Sternson/Flanders drives up. He enters the house, apparently oblivious to his surroundings again.

He doesn't leave until around six in the morning again.

When he leaves, I wait a bit, then start up the car and leave as well. I tail him, but as expected, he just goes home. Nothing special going on here.

I turn on the radio as I drive past his house and through the suburbs, and then through the City to get to the ferry. I live in the Village (okay, it's half the size of the City at this point, but everyone still calls it the Village), on the opposite side of the Loch, in a small house my great-grandmum left for my family. That means that I take the ferry a lot. It's the quickest way.

The morning radio report warns of bad traffic, but it's on the far side of the City. After going on about it for a bit, they go on to some other news, world first, and then local. The big local story is that the seventeen-year-old daughter of one of the City's councilmen disappeared from a club the night before last. Why couldn't I be out finding her?

Oh, yeah. Because I'm not on the police force. Because I'm a bit of an immigrant here.

No, I'm not bitter that I'd have to go through school _again_ to get the job that I'd originally been after, just because I went to school in the wrong country. Not bitter in the slightest.

I stop by the bakery that the little Asian ladies run on the way home. It's open seven AM to midnight, and the same five women do all the baking, and there's always at least one of them behind the counter. I have no idea what their names are and I can still barely decipher their accents, but they know who I am, which is a bit embarrassing. They know what I want the minute I walk in, no matter which one of them is running things at the moment. And they always have one of those wonderful chocolate donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles waiting for me. I don't know how they do it. I'm pretty sure that it involves some very tasty black magic, but that is not a bad thing.

I'm in no hurry this morning, so I sit at one of the three little tables to enjoy my donut and latte. I stare out the window at the wet pavement with the morning sun making it sparkle and turning its puddles to gold. The area's pretty much covered in concrete now, but it can still be a nice place. Especially with the right donut to make the world look pleasant.

I can hear the little black and white television on the counter prattling on about the local news, and as I turn my gaze away from the window, I catch the words "daughter" and "missing". I'm thinking, I've already heard this, but the image on the screen catches my eye.

I drop my donut.

Apparently, Fioli-Sternson's mistress' name is Jenny MacDougall.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	2. Chapter 2

Rarity: Part 2

I hear a ringing. I do my best to ignore it. It's my cellphone, and anyone who calls my cellphone before ten in the morning deserves to leave a message.

But when the phone by the bed rings, I answer it. Not everyone gets my home phone number. "Hello?"

"Ms. Crouse?"

"Hi, Jacob, what's up?" Jacob is the guy I relayed my information to a couple of hours ago. He's whom I always end up talking to with the local police. I told him to use my first name ages ago, but he doesn't. It's sort of cute. I use his first name as retaliation.

"I wanted you to know that we checked out the house. We couldn't get a hold of the owner –"

"I told you, Frank Fioli-Sternson's the owner. Koit Finerson Flanders is a really bad pseudonym."

"Agreed, but we have no proof of that, other than it being an anagram," Jacob sighed. "Anyway, we couldn't get a hold of the owner, so we left a message and checked the place out. It's pretty much empty. Nobody there, nothing suspicious."

"Oh." I sigh. "I'm still certain that it was her."

"That's all right, we can still hope. There's been quite a few girls gone missing from the downtown the past several years; hopefully she won't be the next to stay missing."

I'm asleep again almost as soon as Jacob hangs up - two warm and cuddly cats see to that. It takes me a while to remember the conversation at all when I get up for the day.

I call my client - Abigail Fioli-Sternson - at around four-thirty, and tell her what's happened. She thinks for a while, then asks me to meet her at the house, the address of which I've given her. She wants to see for herself - and as wife of the owner, as it were, that should be just fine.

I'm there by six, ferry ride and all. I park across the street again, and wait, spending the time by binding my mousey hair into a slightly less sloppy ponytail. I'd read, but it's already getting too dark, and I'm too used to not turning on the light in my car to break the habit even when I'm not on surveillance.

And I wait.

And wait.

By a quarter to seven, I'm starting to wonder where she is. She'd call my cellphone if she got lost, I assume, but I haven't heard a thing. I check to make sure I have reception - three bars, should be fine.

I pour a cup of hot chocolate from my thermos and wait some more. I feel that I shouldn't leave.

At about half past nine, someone comes walking down the house's side of the street. I instinctively still, and watch. When he crosses beneath a streetlight, I see that it's Frank Fioli-Sternson.

He enters the house. No lights appear inside, at least not that I can see. I realize a bit later that I haven't had a good blink since he went in, and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.

When I open them, nothing has changed.

It's past ten when the garage door slides open. A small silver BMW backs out, Fioli-Sternson at the wheel. I can see him looking around, adjusting his mirrors - he's much more alert tonight. He lets the car idle while he closes the garage door - it's not automatic - and then he's off.

For a moment, I'm torn. I want to follow him. But he seems to be paying attention to his surroundings this time, and I said I'd meet his wife here… so I don't. Instead, since I know where the guy is now, I call his home phone number, hoping to reach my client.

It rings, and continues to ring. No one picks up. No answering machine picks up.

I try Mrs. Fioli-Sternson's cellphone. I get her voicemail. I tell her I've been waiting several hours, and saw her husband arrive and leave, and ask her to call me.

I end the call and have a bracing drink from my thermos. Usually I try to hoard its contents and end up finishing it long before my surveillance ends anyway… But right now, I'm not worried about running out.

I'm going to check out the house myself.

Of course, the front door is locked. I consider trying the back, but that would involve dealing with the fence, which is six feet tall and close enough to the neighbors that I'm afraid of attracting undue attention. In addition, there could be dogs in that yard - or the neighbors' - for all I know, and the last thing I need is to be savaged by defenders of the territory.

So I pull my kit out of my denim jacket and pick the lock. It's one of those things that comes in handy to know.

Now, I know that what I'm doing isn't exactly on the up and up. However, I've no doubt that Mrs. Fioli-Sternson will see to it that I have no legal trouble. This was her idea, after all…

With a gentle click and a push, the door opens to the darkness inside. I slip in and allow the door to close behind me.

I wait, standing very, very still, but I hear no hint of movement in the black space. The telltale scent of dog is absent, but there is the scent of cigarette smoke. I pull out my flashlight and twist it on.

The dining room is on my left, and the living room is on my right. Both are nearly empty; there's a card table with folding chairs at one edge of the dining room, and a papasan in the living room, but apart from that the rooms are unfurnished. I proceed forward, into the hallway.

The kitchen, to the left, is fairly bare. I check out the bathroom and the two bedrooms - all silent and apparently un-lived-in, with a mattress and some candles on plates in the larger bedroom the only evidence that this is a love-nest.

I look at the last door in the hallway - it must be a closet, given the size of the house and its placement at the end of the hallway. Its door is the same as those of the bedrooms, solid but cheap. I open it.

It is indeed a closet. The three walls are lined with shelves; some towels and blankets are folded on a few of them, but that's it.

As I turn away, the flashlight's beam sweeps low, and something out of place catches my eye - a long, thin, silvery line in the carpet. It would never have been seen in daylight; it is only the angle of my flashlight that catches it.

The carpet in the closet is a separate piece from that in the hallway - it's the same type, and the two join together pretty well, but they are definitely two separate pieces. The silver line seems to be coming out from underneath the carpet of the closet, trailing out across the carpet of the hallway.

I crouch and stare at the seam in the carpet for a few minutes. The silver strand is exactly that - one platinum blonde strand of hair. Coming out from underneath the closet's carpet.

Fioli-Sternson's hair is short and peppered grey. His wife's hair short and black.

But Jenny MacDougall's hair is long and blonde.

Part of me says, I really don't want to bother, because it's very unlikely that any good will come of it. Part of me says, oh, what the heck, I'm being paid to snoop here.

I reach out and pick at the edge of the carpet in the closet.

Nope, it's not tacked down.

I give it a tug, and it slides easily aside.

There is a flat, solid trap door set into the floor of the closet.

It's not a closet at all. It's the stairwell to the basement that the police didn't suspect this house had. The hedges around the outside are thick enough that there was no evidence of basement windows, so they didn't know to look for it.

I know I shouldn't.

I reach in my pocket for my driving gloves, and slip one on, and lift the ring of the trap door with two fingers, using as light a touch as possible. I gently pull the door open.

It had a fairly airtight seal, I notice. The air that wafts up to me from the black pit smells… a little like the meat freezer at the supermarket. And it's cold. I can see a few wooden steps leading down into the absolute silence.

I have never been afraid of the dark, but my nerves are telling me that I might want to start. I really, really want to seal this back up and get out of here right now. I think to myself that all I need right now is for Fioli-Sternson to come back, but somehow I suspect that he's not coming back.

I have to know.

I lean the trap door open and carefully descend the steps just far enough to sweep my flashlight beam around.

The basement is unfurnished and dank, with concrete walls. It seems to be one large room that spans this half of the house, with a brick wall as the far end. The floor is bare concrete, and appears to be swept clean... Except for one spot of red at the bottom of the stairs.

I stare at the spot at the bottom of the stairs. It's a dusty pale red, like the bricks in the far wall. It looks as though someone dropped a brick there.

As though someone dropped a brick there after sweeping the rest of the basement clean.

I stare at the spot.

I stare at the brick wall.

I have a bad case of what I believe are called "the willies" right now.

I shine the flashlight along the top of the brick wall. I breathe a sigh of relief - the support beams along the ceiling end at the wall with a cross-beam, as they should. It appears that the wall was built with the house.

However, there _is_ that one door-sized patch of the wall where the mortar looks several shades darker than it does in the rest of the wall.

I swallow. I have to know.

I creep down the rest of the stairs, avoiding the area of the fallen brick, and cross the room, keeping my flashlight beam on the floor to make sure I'm not stepping on anything important. When I reach the wall, I stare at that odd mortar.

It looks wet. It looks really wet.

With my ungloved hand, I reach out and poke it.

It's wet.

Ohgod.

I place my gloved hand flat on the middle of the newly laid bricks and push. The mortar's so wet that they slide inward, at first bowing improbably, and then… A large group of the bricks fall into open space with a series of wet thuds.

The smell is suddenly stronger.

Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to run now. I should just leave, get to the safety of my car, call the police. I definitely knew enough now - a hidden basement with half of it bricked up was suspicious enough. I didn't have to look. I could smell it. I didn't need to look to know. I knew already.

I look.

I really wish I hadn't. I can be pretty stupid sometimes.

A couple of hours later, I'm sitting in the police station. _Still_ sitting in the police station. And it's a couple of hours yet to go before Jacob comes on shift, so I can't quite help feeling like a suspect. Jacob is much easier to talk to than the random six officers I've dealt with so far. Jacob wouldn't have wasted the first hour asking me repeatedly why I was in the house in the first place.

I'm in a sterile little interrogation room. I've been alone for ten minutes, and I'm starting to think of getting my book out and reading, only somehow Renfield's sparrow problems don't seem so interesting at the moment.

I get out my cellphone and stare at it. Still no calls from Abigail Fioli-Sternson. The first thing I'd done when I'd reached my car was called the police, and then I'd called her. After not getting through to her home again, I'd left a message on her cellphone telling her to go to the police station and contact me. And then I'd chugged the rest of my hot chocolate, which really did help a bit.

I really, really hope that she was asleep and just hasn't checked her voicemail yet. I stuff my phone back in my pocket.

This place smells like lemon disinfectant. I breathe deep. I can't get that _other_ smell out of my head. That dank scent of cigarettes and raw meat…

Lemon lemon lemon lemon lemon.

I pull my book out of the big inside pocket in the left of my jacket. Anything's better than thinking right now.

A few minutes later there's a knock at the door. It's one of the officers to whom I'd talked to before. He enters, then steps aside, gesturing for someone else to enter. "Ms. Crouse, this is Officer Seras Victoria of the Hellsing Organization. They've just been sent up from London due to the circumstances of the case, so we're going to need you to tell them everything again."

The woman who walks through the door is around my age, a few inches shorter, and wearing a ridiculously short-skirted uniform that I don't recognize. I've never heard of the Hellsing Organization, so I've no idea of what they do, although if they've been flown up from London at this hour, they're probably some independent group that tracks down serial killers or something. At least it's Hellsing and not Van Helsing; I'd have to be weirded out then.

Seras extends a hand to me; she's got a clipboard and tape recorder cradled in her other arm. "Pleased to meet you," she says with the instinctive subservience of someone who's recently been promoted and isn't used to it yet. "I'm sorry, I usually don't handle this part of the investigation. Only we're a little short-handed at the moment and I'm one of the few we've got with proper training for this at all."

I rise and shake her hand. "No problem. Ivy Crouse, PI." I have always wanted an excuse to introduce myself like that, but now that I've said it, it sounds rather silly. Oh well. At least Seras doesn't bat an eye.

"You're an American?"

"Started out that way," I answer. "Where should I begin?" I ask as we sit across from each other at the table.

"Um… well…" She looks down at her clipboard. "When did you first see the victim?"

"I saw a woman leaving a club downtown the night before last with Frank Fioli-Sternson, whom I was covertly observing at his wife's request. I followed them to the house, watched her enter the house with him, and watched him leave without her around five forty-five the morning of the day before yesterday… the 26th. I saw a picture on the news yesterday morning and realized that the woman was Jenny McDougall." I have to check my internal clock - yep, it's past midnight; it was all yesterday now.

She nods, scribbling something on the clipboard. "Which club was it?"

"The Red Devil, on Seventh."

"Right… Did you observe the house on the night of the 27th?"

"I did, but saw only Mr. Fioli-Sternson arrive and leave again."

"So it was seeing the picture on the telly that prompted you to phone the police yesterday morning."

"Yes," I say patiently. I've had to tell this story what feels like twenty times in the past four hours. Once more can't hurt.

"And what prompted you to go back to the house yesterday afternoon?"

"Well, after I slept and got up for the day, I notified my client - Fioli-Sternson's wife Abigail - of what I'd observed, and she wanted to meet me at the house to inspect it for herself. The police had already called me and told me that they hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary there when they'd checked it out."

"And you're aware that this house belongs not to Mr. Fioli-Sternson, but to a gentleman named Koit Finerson Flanders?"

"I fully believe that Mr. Fioli-Sternson bought the house using that as a pseudonym. It's an anagram of his name."

Seras doesn't even raise an eyebrow. She simply nods without looking up from her clipboard. That's new; nobody else today has accepted that explanation without giving me an eyebrow twitch at the least.

"And what happened then?" She prompts.

"We were to meet there. I waited for several hours, but she did not arrive. Instead, Mr. Fioli-Sternson arrived on foot, and later left in a silver BMW that I know from previous research is registered to Koit Flanders."

She nods again. "And why did you then break into the house?"

I hate this question. It's the one that they're always the most skeptical about. I hate feeling defensive every time I get to this part, like no matter what I say, they're going to try me for murder because I found the bodies.

"I'm not sure. I felt that something might be wrong."

Again, she doesn't bat an eye. Wow.

The next question should be "How did you gain entry," which had early on resulted in my lock picking kit being confiscated. But it's not. "How did you find the trap door?" Seras questions.

I blink, mentally fast-forwarding the story. "I happened to see a hair caught under the carpet of the closet, so I pulled up the carpet. It wasn't tacked down."

"And how did you determine that part of the wall in the basement was false?"

I hate that question, too. I don't think that any of the local police quite believe me. I think they think I'm party to this somehow, with prior knowledge of the scene.

"I was suspicious; the other three walls of the cellar were concrete, and there was a bit of powder from a brick at the bottom of the stairs, like someone had dropped one there. And when I looked more closely, the mortar was wet."

She nods again. I start to relax a little.

"What did you see when you broke down the wall?"

Well, there goes that relaxation. "Bodies," I mumble. I don't really want to describe all this again.

"I'm sorry?" Seras asks, looking up with an absolutely innocent expression, like she's taking down my grocery list.

"Bodies. Several were bricked into alcoves in the wall, just visible from the shoulders up. The only one I recognized was Jenny MacDougall, who was… folded… with these restraints…"

"It's called a Scavenger's Daughter," Seras says helpfully.

I blink. "Huh?"

"It's a called a Scavenger's Daughter. It's a compressive torture device…" She suddenly catches herself, looking a little embarrassed. "Sorry, I, um… They had one on display in the Tower of London for a while…" She trails off, then clears her throat. "Was there any blood on any of the bodies?"

That's a different question. I try to remember. I don't particularly want to. "I'm not sure. I don't remember any." …Which did seem a bit odd, come to think of it.

"Any signs of violence, other than the obvious? Wounds on the bodies?"

I swallow. "Also not that I can remember. I didn't get that good a look at them."

"What did you do after discovering the bodies?"

I take a deep breath. "I went back out to my car, called the police, called my client, and came here." I feel a bit better now. At least I didn't have to describe the torture device in detail this time; Seras had obviously been briefed already anyway. "Has anyone gotten a hold of my client? I'm a bit worried about her."

"I'll get them to send someone 'round to check, if they haven't already," she says. "I think you can go now."

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	3. Chapter 3

Rarity: Part 3

It's going on three AM by the time I can get out of there. It takes me that long to jump through all the right hoops to get my pistol back. I'm in one of the few professions that enable me to carry a firearm in this country, and I went through an awful lot of trouble to secure all the appropriate permits and licensing. There's a lot of it, too. So when I got to the police station and they wanted to check out me and my car, and they took the gun to check out, it took a good while.

I carry a single-action revolver that my dad gave me. It's black and shiny and heavy and carries six shots. I have never fired it outside of a shooting range. I can tell by the way that they looked at it when they handed it back to me that they think it's obviously more sentimental than functional for me. They don't take it seriously.

Oh well.

Well, it _is_ a bit big for wearing in a shoulder holster, which is why it usually hides under the seat of my car. Usually I don't have a reason to wear it, unless I'm in a bad area at night or something. I hadn't even worn it when I inspected the house.

But I'm putting it on now. It's a small comfort.

I sit behind the wheel of my car for a few minutes before I start it up. I want to be sure of where I'm going.

I can't do it. I can't go home without checking up on Abigail Fioli-Sternson for myself. It feels like a compulsion; I can't talk myself out of it.

I'd have to wait a couple of hours for the early morning ferry anyway.

So I start up the car, and I head for the Fioli-Sternson residence.

It's a nice place in the suburbs, all half-timbered and Edwardian, with some attendant pine trees. Most of the houses in this area are of the same style, but in varying arrangements. I'd drive right past the place if I didn't have the house number, and that's after I've been by several times.

When I get there, I park at the curb and walk up to the door. I hesitate, then try calling again. I can hear the phones inside ringing.

No answer.

I'm pretty sure that nobody's going to come, but I ring the bell anyway.

It's fairly cool out at this time of night. It's rather misty - The streetlights all have halos - but I can still see my breath fog before my face. I stamp my feet a little; I'm only wearing a sweater with my denim jacket over it. As an afterthought I pull my driving gloves back on.

I don't ring the bell again. I try the doorknob - without my lock picking kit, it's all I can do, really.

The door creaks open beneath my hand. It hadn't even been latched.

Uh-oh.

This time, I don't know where Mr. Fioli-Sternson is. Out comes the gun. With my flashlight in my other hand, I creep inside.

It's trashed. The place seems to have been hastily ransacked. If I didn't know what I did about Mr. Fioli-Sternson, I'd think - at first glance, at least - that this was due to a robbery.

The place is silent, no scent of guard dog - just of floral air freshener. I walk through a bit, swing my flashlight over the front downstairs rooms, then move on and glance at the dining room and on to the kitchen.

"Wurf."

I nearly jump out of my skin. There's a dog after all - a big black dog who walked up and sat down next to me at the entrance of the kitchen. I must've missed hearing him on the carpet. He looks up at me with big reddish-brown eyes and seems to be grinning; I guess he's just happy to see somebody. He doesn't seem inclined to put up a fuss, anyway. Some guard dog. But thank goodness.

It takes a couple of minutes for my heart to slow down. The dog just sits there staring and panting with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He must be very well kept - none of that doggy smell about him at all. I'm not letting go of either my gun or my flashlight, so I use my wrist to rub the flat of the dog's head a bit. That seems to satisfy him; he looks away.

I glance at the kitchen; it seems more in order than the other rooms. Strange, I don't notice any dog food bowls… Maybe this guy wandered in from outside just now; I did leave the door open a bit, after all. No matter.

"Wanna check upstairs with me, boy?" I mutter, heading for the stairway. There are a few dresser drawers at the bottom, and clothing strewn all the way down the stairs. I pick my way between the pieces as best I can. The dog follows with less care, but there's still that unusual quiet to his movements. Must be trained to hunt or something. I can't even tell what breed he is.

I peer into a few of the upstairs rooms - a computer room, a guest bedroom. I reach the master bedroom.

Ah hell. There's that smell again. Cigarette smoke and raw meat. Only now it's new and improved with floral air freshener scent added in.

I gag (that floral scent is just too much) and hold my gun arm up to my face, breathing through the crook of my elbow. There's my client, sprawled on the bed, surrounded by enough blood that she cannot be mistaken as being still alive.

I want to bang my head against the wall. Instead, I lean against the doorframe, hiding my face in my arm. I realize now that it was probably too late by the time that I'd called her to tell her to run. Her husband probably overheard her when she said she wanted to meet me at the other house, and that was that. If I'd known at the time…

I give up on that useless train of thought. New thought: great, now the cops are going to want to know all about what I was doing here, and I've no better explanation than "because I felt like it". If this doesn't get me a day in jail, at the very least, I don't know what will.

I turn back to the hallway. As I swing the flashlight beam out so as to see where I'm going, it illuminates something unexpected.

A pair of boots.

On someone's feet.

I snap the flashlight to where the face should be, only to get a nice bright view of a loose red bow tie. What astounding fashion sense, I think, choosing to ignore my denim jacket (of a style I've been wearing since 1987).

The guy is _tall_. And he's wearing a wide-brimmed hat (somehow, it just… goes with the bow tie, really) and sunglasses. In a pitch-black house at four in the morning.

I bring my revolver up; at this range, there's not much point in aiming beyond having the muzzle in his general direction. At least he's not making a move. Very nice of him. I'm so slow that he could've killed me twice by now.

His thin lips slide into an easy smile, like he knows what I'm thinking and finds it amusing. It sets my teeth on edge.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" I demand as a standard greeting.

The lips part - good grief, the teeth on this guy. Those are the biggest canines I've ever seen on a human. "That question should be reversed, shouldn't it?" He asks in a deep dark voice.

I give up and lower the pistol. Seriously, if this guy decides to kill me, it wouldn't make my day much worse. But he doesn't seem interested in making my day worse, at least not in that way. "I'm Ivy Crouse. I'm… I was… her private investigator." I wave toward the mess on the bed, which I know he can see over my shoulder. "I… felt like checking up on my client."

"Oh, you're the American."

My eyebrows go up. "I'm _the_ American now? I'd no idea I was so popular."

"I'm with the Hellsing Organization," he says, which really does explain everything. Except his fashion sense (at least Seras had been wearing something resembling a uniform). He removes his glasses and gestures that I should step aside. "I was sent to do the same."

So Seras kept her word. Well, there's some points for this Hellsing Organization. I obediently stand aside. I'd ask to see a badge or something, but really, there's no reason. This guy moves with purpose, with the presence of someone who is absolutely, positively in charge. I've yet to meet anyone falsely representing their selves who can pull that off that well.

I helpfully shine the flashlight in his direction, and I notice that he's also wearing gloves. White gloves, no less. But he doesn't hesitate to place a couple of fingers to the blood on the bed, testing its consistency.

"I suspect she's been dead since early evening," I say miserably. "It's my fault. I should've come here instead of calling -"

"Shut up," he orders. He doesn't say it with annoyance or anger, he simply says it.

So I do.

"Her throat's been cut," he murmurs, almost to himself. He turns away, and I glimpse an almost confused expression on his face, before it's replaced by that unnerving smile again. "Clever. No wonder it's taken us so long to find him."

Still standing in the doorway, I frown. "You mean this guy's been doing this sort of thing for a while?"

He ignores the question. "Why did you come to check up on your client?" He asks, carefully phrasing the question so that I can't give another easy answer.

On the other hand, I only have the one answer, really. "I felt that I should, after… the mess I ran into earlier."

He'd turned, inspecting the room; now he looks back over his shoulder at me. "You're an Intuitive," he states.

"I'm a what?"

"You are possessed of low-level clairvoyant ability," he explains as though he expects me to take him seriously, surveying the rest of the room. His eyes light on the decorative cross hung above the headboard of the bed; he glances down at the body again with a snort.

"What, I say 'I've got a bad feeling about this' and I'm suddenly a psychic? Get real." I shrug. "I read a lot, and life tends to flow the same way stories do. Events happen in a particular sequence. That's how stories came to be invented, after all. It's not so difficult to make predictions based upon known factors."

The man shrugs. "Suit yourself." He advances on me, then stops directly in front of me. I'm going to get a crick in my neck from looking up at his face if he's going to insist on standing this close.

Then I realize that he's just waiting to pass through the door again. I am _such_ a moron sometimes. This is another reason why I prefer to keep myself to myself: when I'm interacting with people, my reaction time slows horribly.

I step backward - I'd rather remain in the hallway rather than get closer to the body again, and I'll admit it if I have to. "Sorry." I keep the flashlight toward our feet so as to see, but I glance up and down the hallway. "Where did the dog go?"

"He left," the man says as he steps into the hall. He heads toward the stairs. "The police are coming. You shouldn't be here when they arrive."

"Right," I mutter, and follow him down the stairs.

I'm outside almost before I realize it. I blink. I'm usually not quite so spacey. I glance around, but the guy's gone; I didn't see which way he went, or even if he'd come outside as well.

Doesn't matter. He can handle himself; if the police are deferring to this Hellsing Organization, they're not going to hassle him.

The mist has gotten thicker. I can't see my breath in front of my face any more - it's still fogging, but the humidity is high enough that it blends right in. Going to be a very rainy day with some awful morning fog, I suspect.

I start up the car. I'd better get down the ferry; if I wait there, I can get on first.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	4. Chapter 4

Rarity: Part 4

I'm two streets away before I see the car behind me. Its lights aren't on - I never would've seen it if I hadn't glanced at the rear view mirror just as it passed beneath a streetlight. It's some light-colored thing, blending in with the thickening fog.

I stop at a light on one of the suburb's main streets, but I don't see the car behind me. I think that it must've turned off somewhere…

…But a little ways down the block, there it is again.

I turn onto the night-empty express way, heading for the Loch. It's still following, still without lights. When it passes under a light again, I get a good glance at it. Enough to see that it's a silver BMW.

Oh dear.

There's still the chance that it's not him, of course. I could drive to a police station, but if it _is_ Fioli-Sternson, he could simply stop following me. If it's not him, and we're just coincidentally driving the same route… then this guy's an idiot for having his headlights off.

So, first, I need to determine if I'm actually being followed. The thing to do is to start taking random turns. I take the next exit - it heads away from downtown, toward the hills.

He's still there.

Maybe whoever it is lives around here. I can hope.

But before long, I run out of houses, and into the park that encompasses the nearest hills. The road gets curvy. He's still behind me, though with the fog, it's getting harder to see him. How can he see?

I take a side road and keep going, as fast as I dare. The road heads upward. I catch the dim red flash of his brake lights behind me - he slowed to make the turn. He is definitely following me.

I abruptly drive out of the fog, just in time to see a curve ahead. I'm on a road that goes over one of the hills - I'd call them low mountains, but they insist that they're hills here - and winds around the very top, which is where I seem to be. To my right is a slope of gentle grass leading upward to the crest, with a few scraggly trees clinging to it; to my left is the downward slope, steep and similarly tree-spotted, gashed with water-courses full of foliage. The moon casts everything in dim pewter and silver, with the small patch covered by my car's headlights glaring like badly colorized film.

As soon as I'm around the curve and just to the far side of the hill from the other car, I snap off my headlights and come to a dirt-churning halt in the viewing area on the left side of the road. The City is a glowing mass in the fog below.

I jump out of the car, drawing my revolver. I make it to one of the scraggly trees just as the silver BMW rounds the curve. The driver seems to see my car, even without his headlights on - unusually good night-vision, I guess. The BMW swerves toward it, and…

Oh, dammit. I do not need this.

With no sign of hesitation on the part of the driver, the BMW slams into my car full force. I wince at the crash. Car repairs are _not_ within my budget any time soon.

It just gets worse. He doesn't stop with the impact - he drives my car right through the guardrail and over the edge. I can hear my car hurtling downhill and taking out small trees on its way, until one particularly loud crunch, after which there's nothing to hear but the laboring engine of the damaged BMW.

I grit my teeth and try not to move. The BMW backs out slowly, then rattles down the road, disappearing into the fog.

I realize that I'm breathing hard as I step out from behind the tree, and I'm not sure if it's from fear or anger. I walk into the road. I'm not sure whether to walk down, try to call a cab, or just skip to calling the police again right now.

The sound of the other car's engine, muted by the fog, changes in pitch… and approaches with startling speed. Does this guy have eyes in the back of his head, or what?

I raise my pistol just as the BMW streaks out of the mist, coming right for me. I aim low. Two shots take out the left front tire, and the car swerves sideways. I jump away, following my car down the hill. I don't look back.

I can barely see, and with my revolver in hand, I've only one hand to hold up to guard my face. I lift my legs high to try to avoid tripping, but I'm not entirely successful. A branch catches my foot and I tumble, rolling through tall grass.

After a moment, my shoulders hit a tree. That's going to bruise. I decide that my best bet is to lie still - I'm surrounded by fog, and I can't see a thing, except for the moon far above. It seems to be just a hazy patch of light. It also seems to be red now. I wonder if I've hurt my head, but I can't feel anything unusual there.

After what feels like a very long time, I decide to try to get up. I get no further than my knees before I feel a hand around my throat. I'm pushed back against the tree.

"Got you," a low voice chuckles as I make a futile effort to throw him off. I can't get my legs out from under me, and I can't pry his hand away. How did I fail to hear him coming?

"You're rather a difficult loose end to clip," the voice mutters at my frenzied movements. "Hold still now…"

I catch a glare - a reflection of the moon - and I fall still. He's got a rather large knife.

He obviously hasn't noticed that I've still got my gun. I've never shot anyone before, but this would seem to be a great time to change that.

I fire once, and I feel the jolt run through him. He still doesn't let go, however. He says, "Hey now -"

I fire again. One of the reasons I like my revolver is that I can cock and fire it easily with one hand.

His hand is still around my throat, but he's very still. After a moment, though, he sighs. "That wasn't very nice. You've ruined my suit." There is no hint of pain or even shock in his voice.

I lift the muzzle of my gun higher and fire again. I feel something damp spatter against my face. The hand lets go.

I push myself up to a standing position, using the tree for support and wiping my face in my sleeve. I expect to hear a body fall. They do that, right?

Instead, I hear, "Now _that_ was just rude." The person in front of me stands, and…

I can see the moon. I should be seeing a silhouette of his head, but I can see the moon shining through a little hole in the middle of his head.

I fire again.

…I can now see _two_ holes.

I sense his motion more than see it, and I dive to the side just as his knife slices at me. I hear it strike against the tree. It's sharp, made for precise slicing - the sound it makes as it runs through the tree bark is almost musical.

I stagger downhill, one hand out, vaguely aware that my eyes are open far too wide. Not that it matters. I still can't see.

I shot him twice in the head and he's still coming. What. The. Hell.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "I've had quite enough of you -"

"You never drink the blood directly," I hear a new voice, rich and dark. It's that fellow from the Hellsing Organization that I met earlier. How did he get here? "That's very clever; it's made you very difficult to track down. Congratulations, Sir Leonard Skeffinton."

The hand vanishes from my shoulder, and I hear a flurry of movement as I fling myself away. Something drags across the back of my shoulder, and I feel my skin give in a way it's not supposed to. I let out an inelegant shriek.

I hear the Hellsing guy's voice again, considerably agitated. "Get back here, you coward!"

I feel nauseous, and my shoulder aches and feels damp and cool to the night air. The damp is spreading. I struggle to control myself, taking deliberately slow breaths. It can't be bad. They feel a bit numb, but I can move my fingers. I think it's just shock.

The only thing I can hear is my own breath, which doesn't sound nearly so even and calm as I'd like. It must be the fog - everything's so muted that I can't hear the man that I think is less than five feet away. I strain my ears, but I can't hear the escaping man (who is probably none other than Fioli-Sternson) either.

After a little more absolute silence, though, I'm pretty sure that I'm alone - so it comes as a surprise when the hands grip my right arm and side to help me to my feet. I instinctively try not to move my left arm for fear of somehow making the shoulder hurt more. "Uh… thanks," I manage, trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my throat. Slow, deep breaths. Yeah. "I, uh… I thought you went after him."

"I was told to ensure your survival," he says, as though he would rather have chased the guy. "In the moment it took to determine your condition, he fled…" He falls to muttering something, though I make out the words "worm" and "coward". He begins to guide me uphill.

"He… cut me," I say, finally wrapping my brain around the thought.

"Not badly," he responds. It strikes me that his hand on my left side is creeping up toward the wound. I tense, and it stops. That… isn't exactly a medical touch. Jerk. I don't want to think about it; even if he's some weird kind of pervert, he's still leading me uphill, and I haven't tripped over anything yet. Possibly he's got night-vision goggles on or something.

"Why is making sure I'm okay more important than just catching him?" I ask, trying to distract myself (and hopefully him as well).

"If he kills you, his ties to this area will be completely severed, and he can escape to start another life elsewhere as he has before. If I chased him, he could get back to you first and kill you, and could then elude us."

"So…" I stumble, but he still supports my right arm. I keep going. "I'm… bait, because he's obsessed with tidying up before he leaves."

"Precisely."

And here I thought somebody might have, you know, cared or something. "And what if I decide to run, since I know just what I'm worth to you people now?" I scowl. At least I don't feel nauseous any longer - the anger quells the physical shock.

"Then we'll just follow you," the Hellsing guy says with a smile in his voice. Jerk.

As we climb out of the fog, something else surfaces in my mind. "I'm pretty sure that I shot him several times," I say. "Twice in the head, I think."

He brings us to a halt; I can see the road above us from here, silver in the moonlight. "You could be wrong," he points out, releasing my arm. His hand on my back lingers, then also vanishes.

I turn in time to see him heading back down into the mist. I call after him. "Hey!"

"You can make it from there," he calls back, without turning around.

Jerk.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	5. Chapter 5

Rarity: Part 5

There's a car waiting on the road, with someone standing outside of it. So that's how that Hellsing guy got here - he and this other had been following me as well.

I trudge the last fifty feet to the road. The figure by the car reaches down to help me up the lip at the edge, and I see that it's Seras Victoria. I'm a little out of sorts, and for once, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Your friend down there is a dork."

"Eh heh..." she gives a forced, slightly confused, toothy smile, and I note that she has rather spectacular canines as well. "You're wounded... I'll drive you to the hospital."

I frown. "What about your..." I'm not sure if "partner" is the right word. "...cohort?"

"He'll be fine," she answers quickly. "Do you feel up to being briefed on the way?"

That takes me by surprise. "You've found out something new already?"

She gives that uncomfortable smile again. "Not exactly..."

By eight in the morning, I'm sitting in the emergency room, waiting for the Novocain to wear off from my now-stitched shoulder. I'm very lucky in that I wore a racer back bra today - they didn't have to cut it off the way they did my poor sweater to do the stitches. Getting it off is going to be an interesting experience, though.

Somebody's supposed to be arranging transportation for me (and my revolver, which they're holding at the desk) to the police station, so I have nothing to do but wait.

My jacket is folded around my hands; I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. Hesitantly, I reach inside and pull out my dog-eared copy of Dracula. I blankly stare at it, musing over what Seras told me.

Part of me says, "Well, duh." The rest of me says I'm being taken for a ride, with a sizeable conspiracy built up against me, and that at any moment the curtains will be pulled aside to reveal the cameras and the host telling me that I'm on "This Is Your Life" or "Scare Tactics" or something.

But I don't really have any choice but to believe what I've been told. It's the only even moderately reasonable theory that fits the data, so to speak.

Apparently it's true all over the world, but generally hidden. In the UK, however, it's been enough of a problem that even the lowest levels of law enforcement are given seminars on how to deal with it (namely, pass the problem off to Hellsing).

Jacob knew, and never mentioned it to me.

Of course he didn't. They're told not to let slip the secret if they can possibly help it. And when he'd last spoken to me, Jacob hadn't known...

I concentrate, still trying to get used to the idea.

He hadn't known what Fioli-Sternson is.

Fioli-Sternson is a vampire.

I let out an uncontrollable snort, and my shoulder gives a twinge - the Novocain is wearing off. It's not enough to be a bother yet, but it's going to be horribly sore by evening.

...It still sounds ridiculous to me.

I review what Seras told me anyway. There's a reason that Fioli-Sternson used a bad anagram of his name to acquire the house and BMW - apparently part of vampire lore is that they can never truly change their name. So, when the need for a pseudonym arises, they're stuck with anagrams. It's a lesser-known flaw.

Fioli-Sternson is, in truth, Sir Leonard Skeffinton, Lieutenant of the Tower of London during the reign of Henry VIII. He is also the inventor of the Scavenger's Daughter, with which I am now officially all too familiar.

Over the past several centuries, he's been using that device, along with other methods, to remove the blood from his victims' bodies without biting and sucking (which apparently really is vampiric convention). Seras said that usually, a body that's been fed off of to the point of death will arise as a ghoul - but since Fioli-Sternson hasn't been biting to feed, he's left no ghoul trail, making him very difficult for Hellsing to find. In fact, they've only known of his vampirism from documents from the court of Henry VIII itself.

The Hellsing Organization was created for dealing with vampires and ghouls and the like in the UK. And yes, Bram Stoker had known about them. They'd given him a lot of information.

It's not every day that you find out stuff like this. In fact, most people are never told anything meant to change their worldview as drastically as this.

"Ms. Crouse?"

I look up, and I wonder how many times the nurse with the paperwork has called my name as I sit here staring at my book. Luckily, however, she's both patient and pleasant, having just come on shift.

I wish the same could be said of me. I can feel the bags under my eyes.

"There's an officer here to take you to the station," the nurse tells me as I finish signing papers. "He's in the waiting room. Just take the hallway to the left and follow it to the end; you're all done."

She gives me a big smile, and I can't help but notice how blatantly rectangular her teeth are. Great, now I'm going to be staring at peoples' teeth for the rest of my life.

I shrug on my jacket - which would be quite painful if there hadn't been a gauze pad taped over my stitches, and if the Novocain wasn't still hanging on. I hold my jacket closed around me, partly because it's cold and partly to hide the fact that I'm wearing only a sports bra underneath. I've never been a bare-midriff kind of person, even in warm weather. With my book in my pocket, I head for the waiting room.

I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the officer waiting for me is a concerned-looking Jacob.

Author's Note: The real historical personage's name is

Sir Leonard Skeffington, not Sir Leonard Skeffinton.

But, hey, the real character's name is

Abraham Van Helsing, not Van Hellsing.

It started out as quickly realized typo, but I decided to keep it, so as not to disrespect the actual person or his descendants.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	6. Chapter 6

Rarity: Part 6

At the police station, it's waiting, waiting, and more waiting again, punctuated by repeated questionings. I forgot that the Hellsing guy (I still haven't gotten his name, though everyone seems to know who I mean) was covering for me, and described being followed from Fioli-Sternson's house, and that just led to even more questioning. At least now they aren't treating me like a suspect.

I'm guessing that the Hellsing people are leaving me here because they've already talked to me about the most recent events, and because I'm reasonably safe in the police station in the daytime. Seras did say that vampires were uncomfortable being out in daylight (and would suffer a compulsion to sleep, rather than spontaneously combusting or anything), so I _should_ be fine locked up in this little interrogation room for the day. Still, I think I'd feel a little better if one of them was here, since they're the specialists in this case.

Eventually, Jacob brings me a slightly large cotton sweater, which he apparently spent his lunch break getting. He also brought me a cup of split pea soup for lunch. I'm starting to really, really like this guy.

The soup helps warm me up inside, as does the tea that I've been guzzling for most of the day. Still, I feel cold. I guess it's that whole marked-for-death thing.

Finally, four o'clock rolls around, and I'm told to go home. Suits me fine; I'd really like to go and tend to my cats and get some sleep in an actual bed, instead of slouched over a table. I'm too tired now to even be overly worried. I just tell them to make sure that the Hellsing people know where I am.

It takes another half hour to get all checked out - at least they can just hand my revolver and holster back to me this time. I spend several uncomfortable minutes trying to get the holster on before giving up and asking for a bag.

Jacob, just coming off shift, gives me a ride down to the ferry. I consider asking him to stop at one of the jewelry shops downtown - even one of those teenybopper boutiques - so that I can get a cross to wear, but then I remember that Fioli-Sternson had a cross above his bed. He probably wouldn't be deterred by one around my neck... especially since biting didn't seem to be in his repertoire anyway.

Since I don't have a car today, I ask Jacob to drop me off at the Aquabus end of the ferry lot. An Aquabus is one of a touristy little fleet of leftover WWII amphibious vehicles that putter people back and forth across the Loch. Most of the locals seem to think that they're a little silly, but... oh well. At least they're functional and, excepting one disaster a couple of years ago, reliable.

I bid farewell to Jacob, who lives on the City side of the Loch, and go wait in line with the rest of the carless people. As I stand there with a harried mother and her boys in front of me and some lip locked couple behind me, I long for the privacy of my car. At least I won't be taking the Aquabus for long. I'd been allowed to call my insurance company and get that glacier moving, so eventually, they'll be paying for a replacement car. It's not that my insurance is particularly good - it's that my car wasn't, and I don't expect to get one any better.

The line starts moving. We funnel through the ticket booth and onto the waiting Aquabus, rather like a herd of cattle through a slaughterhouse.

I fear that I'm doomed to a certain amount of morbidity in my mind for the rest of my life.

Being the first ferry run of the evening, and since it's the off-season for tourists, the Aquabus isn't full. I get a window seat to myself in the middle. I settle in - being careful not to lean back, as the anesthetic has long-since worn off - and stare at the concrete dock outside the window. My pistol and holster, hidden in a paper bag, I keep in my lap.

I glance at the passengers in front of me as the Aquabus starts up. The guy and his girlfriend that were in line behind me are a few seats up, giggling to each other. Across from them and behind the pilot is a guy in an Aquabus Maintenance jumpsuit, apparently napping under his hat. Behind him are a couple of smartly dressed young men - entry level businessmen, I'd guess. There's a girl in a long coat with headphones and pink streaks in her hair next to a guy with multiple piercings who appears to be reading, and a guy behind them who would appear to be a businessman were it not for his slightly disheveled appearance and the laptop he's huddled over. I'd guess that he's a programmer. Behind me, I can hear a man on a cellphone saying he'd soon be home, and the two boys that were in line in front of me; there's probably some other people back there as well, besides the boys' mother.

I return to staring out the window as the Aquabus drives into the Loch, its rough movements suddenly smoothing out as buoyancy takes over. The movement of the water I'm staring at is almost hypnotic to me, particularly given how tired I am. I watch as the dark water begins to take on a slightly yellow-grey hue as the sun sets. Mesmerized by the rhythm of the water, I begin to drift off to sleep.

A loud slapping sound jolts me awake. I open my eyes, still staring at the water. It seems closer than it should, and I blink rapidly, attempting to re-focus.

It's not me. The water _is_ closer than it was when we left the dock. A small wave strikes my window, causing again the slapping sound that woke me.

I realize that the other people on the Aquabus have noticed, too - the ambient noise has changed. The boys are speaking in low, nervous tones, and the guy with the laptop begins to put it away with slow, uneasy movements, his head frequently turning to his window.

Two years ago, an Aquabus sank. The drive shaft housing hadn't been bolted back on properly during maintenance, enabling water to flood into the housing and from there into the engine and body of the boat. The bilge pumps had failed to function, much less raise an alarm. It had simply ridden lower and lower in the water, until, ten minutes out from the dock, the nose had dipped down and the thing had swamped entirely. Nine of the twelve people aboard had drowned, unable to find their way out in time.

I watch as most of the other passengers also review that tragedy in their minds. Like me, they obviously know that the whole fleet had been overhauled in the wake of the disaster, and should all be as safe as can be at this point. Like me, nobody wants to appear foolish by approaching the pilot and ask why we're riding so low in the water.

I glance back at the window, and see that it's not just waves lapping at the glass now - the water level is an inch above the bottom of the window. The Aquabus' engine sounds as though it's having difficulty with something...

BEEP

Everyone jumps. A red light has appeared on the dash.

BEEP

Several people rise, but I'm the first to reach the pilot. I notice, as I step forward, that there seems to be about a half inch of water on the floor. "Excuse me, sir? Is there a problem?"

BEEP

"We seem to be riding awfully low in the water."

The pilot doesn't look at me. "No need fer worry, lass. Jus' some choppy wo'er."

BEEP

"Are you sure? Because there seems to be an alarm of some sort here..." I point to the red light.

"Eh?"

"This light, here. The one that says 'bilge'."

BEEP

"Wot're yeh talkin' 'bout, lass? Ah don' see anythin'."

I'm a little irritated. "This light right here. It wasn't on when we started."

"Please take yer seat, lass. Yer alarmin' t'other pass'ngers." A wave sloshes over the front of the Aquabus, and the pilot runs the windshield wipers a bit.

BEEP

"Look, could you please tell me why the bilge light is on?" I can see the water out the windows, and it's now a good inch higher than it was when I came up here. I warily eye the water on the floor; I think it's getting deeper, too.

The pilot turns and gives me a withering look. "Yer a Yank, aren't yeh?"

I take a deep breath, about to demand that he not change the subject, when I see the Aquabus mechanic, who's still lounging in his seat behind the pilot.

He's smiling, but that's not what catches my attention.

BEEP

I put my deep breath to better use. "LIFEJACKETS! EVERYBODY OFF!"

Most of the people are all too quick to comply. I suspect that some of them had been getting the lifejackets from beneath their seats before I said anything.

"'Ere, wot're you doin'!" the pilot demands.

BEEP

I ignore him. There isn't a lot of time - the water level is already another inch higher on the windows, and nearly an inch deep on the floor now. The engine sounds horrible - it's going to die at any moment.

The girlfriend sitting close by starts to panic. While her boyfriend pulls out their lifejackets, she waves her hands and jabbers about not wanting to die. The programmer is already wrapping his laptop case in the plastic bag that his lifejacket was stored in; one of the businessmen offers the plastic bag from his lifejacket to help. The girl with the pink streaks in her hair is stuffing her trench coat into her backpack, along with the shoes of the pierced guy next to her. The boys in the back are being regular boy scouts, helping an older woman that I hadn't noticed before with her lifejacket.

I stay where I am, ignoring the increasingly angry protests of the pilot. The man dressed as a mechanic has yet to move, but it doesn't matter - I've recognized him.

BEEP

The laboring engine finally cuts out. The old woman in the back moans as the Aquabus pitches forward, and the girlfriend wails. I realize that if I want to put on a lifejacket, I have to get back to my seat to get one, and that means getting past Fioli-Sternson.

I'm glad that I can't see his eyes, hidden beneath his hat. I don't want to know what he could do to me if I could see his eyes. I don't know what he's done to the pilot, but the poor guy clearly isn't in his right mind...

The water inside the Aquabus is rising. The other passengers are scrambling toward the back; the two businessmen throw open the emergency exit.

BEEP

Oh, crap. My revolver is still sitting in my seat.

The other passengers are piling out, and the water inside the bus - which has momentarily leveled again - is now knee-deep.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "Ah don' know who yeh think yeh are, lass, but ah'm puttin' a stop teh this -"

I slip to my knees as the Aquabus tilts forward again, and the pilot slips with me. The water is shockingly cold, but that's to be expected of the Loch in October. I can hear the girlfriend shrieking hysterically from the other end of the sinking vessel.

Water splashes the pilot's face as we thrash to get up, and he suddenly appears to be very, very confused. "Wot..."

BEEP

"OUT!" I shout at him, and to his credit, he makes his way toward the back of the Aquabus on his own. That other guy must've finally gotten his girlfriend out - she's shrieking outside now.

I crawl toward the exit, hanging on to the seats to make headway against the strong flow of water now coming through the emergency exit. My fingers are numb from the cold. The bus tilts forward so far that it's vertical, the front half of the bus now filled with water. For a moment the flow of water stops. I see the pilot leaping out, and realize that I'm the last person left on the Aquabus.

Well, the last human, anyway.

Water begins to pour in on all sides of the emergency exit. I manage to gasp before the freezing weight of the water comes down on me as the Aquabus submerges.

I lose my grip on the seat on one side, but manage to hang on to the other, so I'm not pushed to the nose of the Aquabus. The force pushing me suddenly stops - there is now no more space for water to fill, and the pressure is equalized.

The bright square of the exit seems to be getting dimmer, and I realize with horror that the Aquabus is plunging straight down to the bottom of the Loch. Lochs are deep. My ears hurt already.

I let go and kick, aiming for the exit. I get my torso through when I jerk to a halt - my shoelace seems to have caught on something.

I look down, and in the fading light, I see a pale hand with one finger looped in my shoelace. Fioli-Sternson.

I can't kick him off. My pulse pounds in my ears - I can't hold my breath much longer.

I can see him raising his head. I glimpse his wide, teeth-baring smile, brilliant and sharp in the gathering shadow... In a moment I'll see his eyes, and I suspect that if I do, it'll be too late...

With my other foot, I kick off the trapped shoe, and am released. I struggle upward for all I'm worth.

My blood is pounding like a steam engine; it's painful. I desperately need to breathe. At the risk of losing buoyancy I let slip a little air, but that just makes it worse. Everything hurts. It feels like my rib cage is going to break, like someone's stabbing my shoulder, like my ears are punctured. I can see the light on the surface of the water, but it's dim - I'm too far down. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I'm not going to make it.

I'm wrong. My head breaks through the water; the moment I feel the air on my face, I gasp.

It seems to take forever for me to make sense of what's going on. The air feels colder than the water, but I know that it's just an illusion due to hypothermia. I try to calm my breathing, but every time I take a deep breath, I cough from the water in my lungs. I try to wipe my eyes, but given that I'm completely soaked, that's a pointless exercise.

Eventually I manage to orient myself. Now and then, as I bob in the water, I glimpse a patch of orange or yellow - the other passengers in their life jackets. Only the pilot and I don't have, and I briefly hope that he's all right.

We sank not too far off from the Village side of the Loch; in fact, I seem to be closest to the dock itself. I think I can swim that far. Maybe.

I proceed to head for the shore using my strongest, most reliable swimming stroke: the dog paddle. It's also the stroke that causes the least pain in my shoulder.

I seriously hope that someone from the Village docks can get a boat out to me before I run out of energy. One cup of split pea soup for lunch doesn't leave me with much by this time of day.

The sun has dipped below the clouds just before setting, and it illuminates the water of the Loch. I have seen innumerable writers and poets say that the setting sun turns the waters blood red, but it does not. The sun turns the waters purple in the shadows and a horrid salmon pink elsewhere. It's nauseating.

Or maybe I'm just nauseous from swallowing the Loch water. It's none too clean.

I get closer to the dock, and I see that they've finally managed to put out a couple of emergency boats. In a few minutes I see one heading back with a few passengers, then another with more passengers and, it seems, the pilot. I realize, as another boat heads back toward where the Aquabus sank, that they haven't seen me, and I haven't the strength to call out to them and swim at the same time.

The sun sets, mercifully erasing the lurid colors. In the dim afterglow, spotlights come on. Finally, someone catches sight of me. Two emergency crewmen come swimming out to me; I'm quite close to the dock now. One directs me to turn over as the other loops his arm around my neck, and they drag me in to shore.

I get my feet beneath me when we reach the dock and try to stand, but I feel too heavy. My legs are trembling. I fall back to my knees.

"You can stand, Ms. Crouse." Hands take my arm, pulling.

At first I think it's one of the emergency personnel, and I give a weak wave of my free arm. "Just gimme a minute," I pant, planting one foot again. My second try at standing is much more successful, if aided.

A blanket lands about my shoulders as I'm led up the concrete ramp. Reaching to pull it close around me, I realize that the hands holding my arm are gloved, and that the backs of the incongruously white gloves are marked with bizarre sigils.

I look up - and up - at the Hellsing agent. I still don't know his name, but I greet him anyway. "Oh. Hi." I take a breath to continue, but it's too deep, and I begin to cough.

He leads me to the open back of an ambulance, and I sit on the bumper. There appears to be no one else here at the moment, though there are people rushing every which way all over the dock.

"Nearly everyone is accounted for," a new voice chirps, approaching. I raise my head again to see Seras approaching. "All but the mechanic who was doing maintenance on the Aquabus earlier in the day."

"They don't have to worry about him," I tell her. "It was Fioli-Sternson. He went down with the ship."

"It would be nice if that took care of him, but it doesn't," she sighs, sitting on the bumper next to me. "He was probably trying to fake his death again, and you coming on board was just lucky coincidence. For him, I mean." She hands me a Styrofoam cup of something steaming, which I'm all too happy to accept.

It could be hot water for all I care, but as it turns out, it's hot chocolate. I mumble my thanks and drink deeply, burning my tongue a bit. I don't care. "Not really," I say after a moment. "He'd know from my information that his wife had that I lived in the Village, so he knew that I'd have to commute. After he took out my car, he knew I'd probably have to take the Aquabus. So it wasn't really a coincidence."

I try not to think about the fact that this guy just tried to kill an entire boatload of people just to get rid of me. "Could you hold this?" I ask, handing the hot chocolate back to her. "I want to get my jacket off..." I let the blanket fall back and begin to work myself out of my jacket. My shoulder hurts horribly, so it's slow going.

"Oh!" Seras exclaims, getting up again. "You'll need to have your dressing changed. I'll go get someone to help." She walks quickly away, thankfully remembering to leave the hot chocolate behind.

I manage to remove my jacket and wrap the blanket around myself again, leaving my jacket in a heap on the bumper. I realize, as I take up the hot chocolate again, that my feet are freezing, but I'm a bit too tired to do much about it.

I glance to my left; the other Hellsing agent is still standing there, unnaturally still. "Well?" I ask.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to chastise me for almost getting myself killed, or something?"

"No," he says, tilting his head. "Why?"

I blink. "Um. Well, it would've made Fioli-Sternson harder to catch, if he'd succeeded, wouldn't it?"

"Yes. But you're already aware of that."

"Oh." I stare down into my hot chocolate, wondering why I'd expected him to chastise me in the first place. Possibly it was because I knew that he was old enough to be my father, if not older. No one had told me anything of the sort, but somehow... I was just certain of it. "Okay..."

Up until now, he had still been wearing his ridiculous hat, just as when I'd first seen him. Now, he removes the hat, leans it against the inside wall of the ambulance, and picks me up, hot chocolate and all. I'm so startled that I don't protest, and once I'm up, I just focus on not spilling my drink.

"If it is more in keeping with your expectations," he says, "I am assigned to ensure your survival. I would therefore appreciate it if you would cooperate." He lets me down onto the gurney, then pulls another blanket from a storage compartment and throws it over my legs. I note that his dark hair seems to be awfully messy, but I suspect that it would be so whether he constantly wore that hat or not.

He looks up suddenly, then hops down from the ambulance, picking up his hat on the way. "I will return to escort you home," he informs me, moving away.

"Wait a minute, where are you going?"

"Away."

"But -"

And then I see what's scared him off: there are people coming this way, and it's not Seras. I can see that one of them is carrying a television camera.

"Oh." I settle into my blankets a bit, glad that I hadn't removed my soaked sweater as well; it wouldn't be proper to flash the local TV viewers.

"...Jerk."

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	7. Chapter 7

Rarity: Part 7

My gun is gone, sunk to the bottom of the Loch with the Aquabus. Miraculously, that's all I lost; everything in my jacket pockets made it back to shore with me. My poor copy of Dracula will never be the same, though. It's so water-swollen that I can barely get it out of my jacket's pocket, and when I do, it comes out in pieces.

"Great," I sigh, and decide to leave my wallet where it is for now.

I'm all by myself again, sitting on one of the benches just inside the Aquabus gift shop, with my third hot chocolate. I've been given a large gift sack for my wet clothes, and emergency clothing - a happy pink Aquabus sweat suit with matching socks and slippers - all complimentary from the transit board.

I hate pink.

They're in the process of getting everyone set up to go home right now. There were no serious injuries amongst the survivors, but the elderly woman and the hysterical girlfriend (and her boyfriend, for her sake) went off to the hospital anyway; the rest of us are all here in the gift shop warming up as rides are arranged and statements are taken.

I've already been interviewed five times, and been thanked by just about everyone - particularly the pilot - but I don't want to hear it. The whole mess is my fault, and I can't explain that to anyone.

It occurs to me that I deserve to be wearing this awful pink sweat suit, and the silliness of the thought cheers me considerably.

The door opens with a blast of air that chills my still-damp hair. One of the emergency workers comes inside, looks around, then sees me next to the door and smiles. "There's a car for you," he says.

I'm confused, since I was intending to take a cab as soon as they said I could leave. I've seen neither hide nor hair of my "protector" since the media cornered me, but since he left me with no way to contact him, I could only assume that he would find me. Perhaps he has.

I stand and glance through the door, and I recognize the car - it is indeed the one that Seras picked me up with the other night. I guess it was only last night. Man, I'm tired.

I thank the guy, pick up my bag of wet clothes, and head out to the car. Seras is again behind the wheel, and she smiles at me, and I again notice her teeth.

I wonder if she's actually a vampire. I suppose it would make sense, given her teeth, and her near-red eyes, and given that I've only ever seen her after dark. But... she's so much more bright and cheerful than I'd expect.

Her partner, the jerk, is lounging in the back, taking up the entire back seat. He seems to be amused by something, and I get the idea that being amused is his base state.

I realize, as I cross in front of the car to take the front passenger seat, that I've been thinking of him as a vampire since Seras explained things to me last night. She hadn't said that either of them were, but... it just seemed that way to me.

And it didn't particularly matter to me. The fact that they existed was what took getting used to, not who was or wasn't a vampire.

"I'm to drive you home, and then I'm to go help keep an eye out for Sir Skeffinton coming up from the Loch," Seras informs me pleasantly. "My Master is to stay with you, in case he gets past us."

Well, that explains that relationship. "Sure... but..."

"Yes?"

"Can we stop by the bakery first?"

She blinks, then breaks out in a wide, honest smile. "Sure, I guess so."

"Oh, good." I can't stand it any longer. I twist around in my seat to address the car's other occupant. "Okay... so... what _is_ your name, anyway?"

The moment we enter the bakery, the little Asian ladies - all five of them - are all over me. They give me a box of a dozen of the chocolate-iced chocolate donuts with sprinkles, and a nice big hazelnut latte, and insist that I can't pay for it, because I'm all over the news and I'm a local hero now. Oh, joy.

I thank them as graciously as I can, and one of them asks if my companion would like a drink as well. I turn to see him standing back, near the door, looking out toward the waiting car - with Seras still behind the wheel - with a peculiarly intent expression. I notice that Seras seems to be listening to what appears to be a walkie-talkie... and then she drives away, after a glance toward us.

"Nothing for me, thank you," he tells the smiling women, placing a hand on my shoulder. "We should get you home."

I hand him the box of donuts, after removing one to eat on the way. I bid farewell to my new fan club and follow him out.

As the door of the bakery closes behind us, I glance at the empty parking spot. "Well, luckily, my house is only a couple of blocks away, up the hill," I say, indicating the way with a wave of my donut. "Do you have any idea why Seras ditched us?"

He smiles slightly as we start walking. "Sir Skeffinton was sighted along the shore."

"Ah." I take a bite of my donut, mulling over the information. I feel a bit of a knot trying to form in my stomach, but I do my best to ignore it. "You know this by... telepathy, I take it?"

"After a fashion."

We walk a little further. "So..." I gather up my courage. "Alucard."

"Yes."

"Is... that a... um... code name? Or..." I can't quite bring myself to say it. "Or..."

"Or an anagram?" I don't think I've ever seen anyone smile that wide, and it's kind of creepy.

"Um." I take a long sip from my latte. "Yeah."

"Do you really want to know?"

I have to think about that one. I finish half of my donut and drink a bit of the latte. "You know, I don't think I do."

At that, he laughs, and it is at once one of the most pleasant and most frightening things I've ever heard.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	8. Chapter 8

Rarity: Part 8

The minute I open my door, the cats are all over me. Jinto, the younger, seems to think that tripping me will be a suitable affectionate greeting; Lafiel, the elder, leaps from the back of the chair by the door to drape herself from my shoulders instead. "Calm down, guys! I'm glad to see you too!" I tell them as I flick on the overhead light, dropping my bag of soggy clothing.

"Come on in, make yourself at home," I call back to Alucard without looking. "If I don't feed the beasties right away, I doubt that they'll forgive me." I walk through the living and dining rooms and into the kitchen, beset by hungry cats all the way.

He enters the kitchen a moment later, just as I finish serving the cats their canned food and move on to replenishing their water and dry food. The cats tuck in, taking no more notice of this guest than they would anyone else.

"This is Jinto and Lafiel," I say, introducing the cats. "The woman who gave me Lafiel swore up and down she was Lafayette, but the vet pointed out that he was a she. And then Jinto met her in the garden and moved in on his own." I'm perfectly aware that I'm babbling. I just don't care. I'm tired, and if I'm going to be bait and have who-knows-what in my house, they shall suffer my babbling, dammit.

"Huh." Alucard responds as though he's successfully ignored the babbling. He looks for somewhere on the kitchen table to deposit box of donuts, fails to find a space, and sets the box on one of the chairs instead. He then looks around, studying the surroundings. He gestures toward the windowless wooden door visible in the dining room. "Basement?"

"Yeah... It's not, you know, finished, so there's nothing but the laundry machines and boxes and such down there."

"It opens to the outside?"

Ah, I should've thought of that. "It does. Not exactly air-tight, either... can vampires really turn their selves into mist?"

"It depends on the vampire." He moves away, returning to the living room and looking at the stairs. "The house has no attic."

"Nope, just lovely sloping ceilings upstairs." I return the bag of dry cat food to its hiding place under the sink and stare at the refrigerator. I should really eat something, but the donut I had has rather spoiled my appetite. I get out some leftover curry that I need to finish anyway. "So, can vampires enter a place without being invited?"

"That also depends on the vampire." He moves to the far side of the living room and casually begins to study my bookshelves.

"Can Fioli-Sternson... er... Sir Skeffinton?"

"We suspect so." He pulls out one of my books - I don't see which one - and sits down in my favorite (and only) armchair.

I decide against asking him to move, and microwave my leftovers instead. To my surprise, Alucard continues.

"Sir Skeffinton's abilities lie in evasion. His apparent inability to fight has nearly led to his capture on a number of occasions, but he has always escaped. Were he a worthy opponent..." he pauses, the last phrase hanging in the air for an odd, silent moment. He sounded so... sad, or perhaps tired, when he said it. "Were he a worthy opponent, I would be at the edge of the Loch waiting for him. As it is... it is felt that I will be of more use here..." I note that he seems to struggle with the last part before finding a passive way to state his displeasure.

"So you're here to mop up, but nobody thinks he'll get this far," I say, getting my food out and prodding it with a fork. "It sounds like somebody's trying to keep you out of trouble. You must be awfully disappointed."

He gives a short, somewhat bitter laugh. "Perceptive."

I can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

By the time I finish eating and getting a shower, Alucard seems to have completely settled in, and has either been reading Harold Schechter's Nevermore rather quickly or has skipped ahead, because he seems to be halfway through already.

I can hear the cats scratching at the basement door, which means that there's probably a mouse taunting them from the far side again. "Any word?" I ask Alucard as I pass, rounding the corner to open the door for the cats.

As soon as I yank the obstinate door open, the cats race down the stairs. I push the door shut behind them, lest they leave presents for me at the foot of my bed, good hunters that they are.

"None," he responds without a glance as I return to the living room. "Perhaps you should rest," he suggests, his definitely red eyes finally sliding up to meet mine.

I feel the tension in my shoulders easing at the very prospect, and I notice how tired I am. "That sounds like a great idea," I say, barely able to stifle an unexpected yawn as I turn toward the stairs. I don't know how well I'll sleep - sheer nervousness has been keeping me awake this long - but I find I want to give it a try now.

However, before I can get to the stairs, my foot bumps a large, full plastic bag sitting in the way. I look down, and my shoulders sag. "Crap. I forgot about my wet clothes," I mutter, picking up the bag and turning around again. "I'd better go put them in the washer so that they don't smell like loch forever."

Alucard, sitting still but now watching me, raises an eyebrow at this and watches as I pass. I assume that he's thinking that worrying about my clothes right now is a bit silly. I don't care. I like my jacket and I'd like it to stay in a wearable state.

A waft of cold air greets me when I open the basement door again. The cats must still be hunting. I descend, now wearing my own pajamas, but still the pink slippers given me as emergency footwear. I figure they'll make good house shoes for just such an occasion as this - traversing the house's unfinished basement.

I carelessly throw the light switch, passing under the bare light bulbs to the washer and dryer, located beneath the kitchen at the rear right corner of the basement.

I see shadowy movement beneath the shelves lining the right wall as I walk by, and assume that it's the cats, probably annoyed at my disturbing their hunting.

It takes me a moment to get everything out of the still-damp pockets, but soon everything not to be washed is in a soggy pile on top of the dryer, and the clothes are in the washer. I reach for the detergent on the shelf to the right.

That's when I catch movement to my left out of the corner of my eye.

I freeze in cold shock, suddenly perfectly aware of my environment. To my left, in the opposite rear corner of the basement, is the loose, grimy door to the stairwell to the outside.

I tell myself that what I saw was only the cats. Steeling myself, I slowly turn my head.

Movement along the floor attracts my attention. It's not the cats. There are things half the size of the cats moving along the floor. Rats. My stomach knots up. My right hand, gripping the handle of my near-full jug of detergent, tightens. My gaze follows the rats; they're suddenly streaming toward the rear left corner of the basement, which seems to be shrouded in shadows. The lights flicker.

I hear the cats growl. They're behind me. Jinto, the more timid, moves to crouch a few feet away from my feet. Lafiel, more bold, stalks around the shelf on my right and onto the dryer, tensed as though to pounce. Both of them are growling low and steady now, ears flat back.

"What were you waiting for?" I mutter to them, not taking my eyes from the dark corner opposite me.

The rats swarm, pile onto each other, build a tower from their squirming bodies. I can no longer distinguish individual rats within the mass - the lights seem to be giving out - and then I realize that it's not rats at all, but a crouching man slowly standing.

Skeffinton.

"Such a hassle," he murmurs. "It's so hard to carry things in that form..." He raises his arm toward me.

He's got a gun. My own revolver, lost in the Aquabus. The bastard.

He tilts his head to the side, slightly manic red eyes catching mine. "...But I'm not about to bite you just to be rid of you. Ghouls are such a mess, you see, so I never kill that way. Suicide will suit you much better." He pulls back the hammer.

I can't avoid the all-consuming red his eyes, still locked with mine. I can't break the gaze. But those near-luminous depths, all seems to be growing dark. "Be still," he tells me.

I am still.

He takes a step forward. Lafiel growls loudly.

"You don't have to listen to him," I seem to hear Alucard's voice say in my ear, though he's obviously not there.

Skeffinton stops, eyes narrowing as he shifts to regard the grey tabby. "I suppose you can take these filthy beasts with you," he mutters, swiftly bringing the pistol to bear on her.

My right arm is still outstretched, still grasping the jug of detergent on the shelf.

Using the rest of my body as a counterweight, I fling the nearly-full jug straight at Skeffinton.

He gives an inarticulate cry as he's struck, staggering backward as the jug breaks and soaks him in liquid detergent. The gun goes off; a gouge appears in the top of my dryer as the bullet glances off of it into the wall beyond. Lafiel seems to have teleported away.

I should do the same, but my feet won't move. I'm too scared to move.

Skeffinton recovers, his upper lip curling back in a grotesque, impossibly wide snarl, and roars with rage as he brings my revolver up again.

My heart is beating almost painfully fast, and I find I'm holding my breath.

The dimmed lights go out entirely.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and... I'm thankful for the darkness. A rush of wind passes my ear, ruffles my hair, like a loosed arrow. I have the vague impression of animate - I can't say living - darkness with no set shape and too many eyes.

I pass out.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


	9. Chapter 9

Rarity: Part 9

I don't wake up; I simply become aware that my eyes seem to be open, and I'm looking up at the cobweb-laden beams of the basement's ceiling. There's a bare light bulb just out of my immediate vision, which causes me to squeeze my eyes shut again as they painfully adjust.

I'm on the floor. Why am I on the floor?

I slowly remember, and a cold rush grips me. I must've been shot. Was I shot?

I take a few deep breaths. No, the only pain is in my shoulders, particularly the cut one; I seem to have landed on that side, my head on my outstretched arm, and then flopped onto my back. That would explain the outstretched arm part, anyway. ...I wonder if he wound is bleeding.

I carefully open my eyes again, remembering the darkness. I fainted. Cripes. I'm lucky I didn't bash my head on the cement floor.

"Ms. Crouse?"

I turn my head to my left, toward the velvet voice. Alucard is towering above me, his eyes hidden by the glare of his glasses.

My mouth feels dry, my throat scratchy. I wonder if I'd been screaming. "Did -" I cough. "Did you get him?"

The vampire's mouth slides into that thin, far-too-wide grin. "Yes. I 'got him', as you put it."

"Ah," I say, turning back to regard the ceiling again, as it's much less disturbing. I tense, then pull my sore body into a sitting position, resting a hand on the shelves on my right for balance. I seem to be all right. "I..." I look back at the last place I saw Sir Skeffinton, and frown. All I see is my revolver lying on the floor, and a mess that smells like ash and laundry detergent. "There's no body."

"No, there isn't," Alucard responds agreeably, extending a gloved hand to help me to my feet.

For the second time in as many days, I say the very first thing that pops into my head. "Well, good. That's one less I have to explain to the police."

Alucard's face goes slack - then he laughs. Unlike before, I don't find it frightening at all this time.

"You, Ms. Crouse, are a rarity."

I am awakened the next day by, of all things, my doorbell.

I startle awake, swiftly kicking my way out of the afghans draped over me. The cats lazily jump away from my flurry of motion, further freeing me, as they'd been pinning down my chest and feet. I never had made it up to bed; instead, I spent the night on the couch with the cats, who had seen fit to hide upstairs after being shot at in the basement.

"Hang on, I'm coming!" I call, running fingers through my tangled hair in an attempt to make myself presentable.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror next to the door as my hand reaches and instinctively turns the doorknob. I'm still in my pajamas, and I'm smudged with basement grime, particularly on my cheek. My hair still has cobwebs in it. Oh well... too late to worry about that now.

I open the door.

It's grey and cool and raining outside. There's a bedraggled-looking courier standing at the door, his bike leaning against the porch post. He sneezes violently, and manages "Package, sign," between snuffles, shoving a large, bulging brown envelope and clipboard of paperwork at me.

I sign for the envelope and am tempted to offer the courier something warm to drink, but he's on the bike and riding away with barely another glance at me. I shrug and close the door, studying the package.

It's addressed to me, but it has no return address.

I remember the events of the night before. Alucard had carried me up from the basement. I think I was more than a little in shock at the time, because I was babbling again.

"I suppose I'll have to call up Jacob and tell him what happened. He'll be worried, after he sees the news." I'd sighed then. "I suppose I should date him or something."

"Hn." Alucard had laid me on the couch and helped me to pull the afghans over myself. The cats - who had been attempting to trip him since we'd reached the first floor - quickly bedded down on me.

I remember that Seras had arrived with two other men at about that time, and Alucard had directed them to clean up what little was left in the basement. He'd then bid me good night; I don't know where he went after that.

The other two men left within an hour; there really wasn't much for them to clean. Seras had come over to me then, just before leaving. "I've been instructed to offer you a job," she'd said. "We could use the help right now..."

I remember feeling how sore I was, and how tired. "I don't think I can do this for a living," I told her. "Not all the time, anyway. I think I should stick to humans."

And she'd responded with, "Contract work, then?"

The papers in the envelope seem to be a police file. A yellow post-it note on the top page says, "Please investigate. Expect to be contacted."

I scowl. "What, already?" I say aloud, dropping the papers on the couch.

The next case can wait. There's a box of donuts in the kitchen calling my name.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.


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